


Holmes & Holmes - Hand In Hand

by LadyGlinda



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Brotherly Love, Fluff and Smut, M/M, No Eurus Holmes, No Underage Sex, Sibling Incest, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-15
Updated: 2018-08-15
Packaged: 2019-06-27 22:03:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15694233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/pseuds/LadyGlinda
Summary: A short glimpse at two brothers who share a special bond from the beginning on.





	Holmes & Holmes - Hand In Hand

## 1

It started as soon as Sherlock was old enough to consciously grab and hold onto something. Or actually even before. Baby Sherlock hardly ever smiled when his mother picked him up or when his father made funny grimaces for him. He looked at them with his huge, crystal clear eyes as if he wanted to say, “And what's that good for?”

But when he laid eyes on his big brother Mycroft, he didn’t just smile. He _beamed_ at him, exposing his toothless, pink mouth. He reached out with his chubby little arms until Mycroft took him. In the beginning Mycroft had been a little afraid of this warm bundle that was his little brother, frightened he could hurt him, but soon he loved holding him on his lap and making silly faces, and if _he_ did it, Sherlock laughed.

And then he started holding Mycroft's hand. Mycroft got used to the sweaty little palm in his hand, and he gladly indulged Sherlock. Mycroft was not very fond of people, not even with seven years, but he had instantly started loving his little brother, knowing he was special.

Very early, as he was early at everything, Sherlock started to walk, and he only walked by holding his big brother's hand. Unsurprisingly, his first words were 'Mycie' and 'hand'. Everybody cheered and smiled when they saw them, the grandparents and the aunts and the neighbours, calling them 'cute' and 'adorable'.

Sherlock wouldn’t give his hand to anyone else and pouted and sulked when his mother forced him to do it with her. But with Mycroft he walked everywhere, holding onto him full of trust and affection, and it made Mycroft very proud. Needless to say they shared a bed at night. Mother gave up soon bringing Sherlock into his own bed because he could be found in Mycroft's every morning, cuddled up with him, their fingers entwined.

Of course Mycroft also had to go to school, and he knew that Sherlock was waiting for him all morning until he finally returned so they could walk hand in hand to the dining room for having lunch together with their parents. After this, they would go to Mycroft's room so he could do his homework. He couldn’t take care of this by holding Sherlock's hand but Sherlock would stay at his side until he was finished, and then they took a nap together, cuddled up in Mycroft's bed.

Mycroft didn’t have any friends. He didn’t need any. He was polite to his classmates but he never invited them over to his home. Sherlock was at home and that was all that counted.

And then Sherlock turned six and joined him in school. And in the breaks, they would meet up and Sherlock would take his hand as soon as he had reached him.

The other children mocked Mycroft. Made fun of him. The thirteen-year-old who was holding hands with his annoying little brother. But Mycroft didn’t care. To him Sherlock was not annoying. Of course - he did constantly ask questions, but he did it because he was so obsessed with learning. And his questions were never stupid or redundant, which couldn’t be said about the children in Mycroft's class. So he answered them as well as he could, and he held Sherlock's hand while he was doing so. When the mockery got more malicious, Mycroft did something he had avoided until then – he used his abilities to deduce other people's nasty secrets and exposed them to the stunned and disgusted people around them. The mockery stopped and the glares and the headshakes could be easily ignored.

Then two things happened in close succession. At the age of fourteen, Mycroft woke up one morning with sticky pants and the memory of a dream in which he had been kissed and touched by a man; a man with a chiselled body and black hair and wonderful, soft lips. He very carefully disentangled from Sherlock and escaped to the bathroom.

And a few days later new neighbours moved into the house next to theirs; a friendly, rather young couple with a son at his age.

George wasn’t chiselled and black haired, instead he was thin and his hair resembled the colour of a carrot. But he was nice and funny, and he wasn’t behaving condescending towards Sherlock who was always with them when they met up outside the Holmes' house or talked in the breaks between classes.

One afternoon, George rang the doorbell, and Mother led him to Mycroft's room where he was sitting over his homework, Sherlock at his side. She told her younger son to come with her, and Sherlock pouted and said he wanted to stay. But Mother insisted and he left with her, shooting a glare at George before he slipped out of the room.

Mycroft was feeling rather uncomfortable when George sat down on his bed. They talked about the homework (that George had already finished) and then the redhead asked him to sit next to him.

When George clumsily kissed him, Mycroft thought that his mother had foreseen that, giving them some privacy by taking Sherlock with her. George embraced him and his hand willingly or unwillingly touched Mycroft's groin, and he reacted to it. He knew already that he liked boys, not girls, and he didn’t have a problem with it, and obviously neither did his mother, but this didn’t feel right, and he only held still for a couple of seconds before he told George that he didn’t want it.

George blushed and let him go, and a minute later he was gone. But Mycroft wasn't alone for long. Sherlock appeared, his face smeared with cake batter, and looked at him inquiringly and offered him his hand, and Mycroft took it, and they wordlessly cuddled up on his bed.

And four years went by, and there wasn’t another George, just two brothers walking side by side and hand in hand. Sometimes Mother said it was strange to be so close for brothers of this age but Mycroft didn’t care as he and Sherlock were unique and so was their brotherly bond. More wet dreams plagued him and he couldn’t always hide them from his little brother, but Sherlock very uncharacteristically didn’t ask about them and stayed silent when Mycroft got up with soiled pants and a red face to clean himself up.

They remained inseparable until the day came when Mycroft had to leave to go to university, far away in London, and it broke both of their hearts, but Mycroft promised that he would come home as often as he could, and that as soon as Sherlock would be old enough to follow him, he could come and live with him. With tears in his eyes, Sherlock accompanied him to the train station, and they held hands until Mycroft had to enter the train that would bring him to his new life, and when he was sitting in his compartment, he cried a bit and he already counted the days until he would see his little brother again.

## 2

Mycroft stepped from one foot to the other, his heart beating ridiculously fast.

The day had finally come. After seven long years of hardly seeing his brother except for Christmas and some always too-short summer holidays spent at home or with Sherlock in London, his brother, now eighteen years old, was allowed to live with him. He would go to uni as Mycroft had done, who had started working for the government several years ago. He wouldn’t have much time to spend with Sherlock during the days but the evenings would belong to them.

Despite living apart from each other for so long, Mycroft's feelings for his brother had never changed. Sherlock was his whole world, and he knew he was Sherlock's. Whenever Sherlock had come to visit him, they had dropped his luggage in Mycroft's flat and then they had gone out for a walk – hand in hand.

And now Sherlock climbed out of the train, a huge smile on his face, and Mycroft's heart missed a beat. His brother wore blue jeans and a black t-shirt, his hair was a little longer than he had used to wear it as a child, and he looked so grown up and so… handsome.

Mycroft didn’t really mind this thought as he was simply stating facts; actually Sherlock was gorgeous. He noticed all the looks that were thrown at his little brother, and then Sherlock was clinging around his neck, and he thought, “You can look at him but he will never care about you.”

And then Sherlock picked up his suitcase again and said, “Hand” with a smirk and a twinkle, and Mycroft's fingers entwined with his, and they walked off to Mycroft's car, hand in hand like they had always done.

*****

Mycroft had taken to huge efforts to decorate Sherlock's room. A big, comfortable bed, lots of space for experiments and the crazy items Sherlock used to collect, a big wardrobe full of new clothes that he had bought for him. Sherlock looked at everything and thanked him with a happy smile. But when they had eaten dinner together – Mycroft had cooked, using his best pasta recipe for this occasion – and had taken a shower one after the other after watching some television, Sherlock was waiting for him, sitting on his bed in red pyjamas, the black curls still damp, and Mycroft wondered why he had bothered with a bed for him.

Of course he didn’t mind. But it felt… different, thinking to spend the night side by side with his brother who wasn’t a child anymore. When they had met last time, Sherlock had not been quite as grown up. But Mycroft decided it just felt strange because they had lived apart for so long, and he crawled under the light blanket and lifted it for Sherlock to join him. Their hands found each other under it, and after talking for a while, they said 'goodnight' and Mycroft turned to his side. He was used to sleeping like this now.

“Hand,” Sherlock said, and he reached behind himself with a smile.

And then he froze. “That's not your hand, Sherlock.”

“No. Not quite.”

What Mycroft's fingers had found was softer than Sherlock's hand and at the same time very hard; it was thick and warm - and very long… He tried to remove his hand but Sherlock covered it with his own, holding him in place. He could have freed himself of course if he had really tried. He didn’t.

“This… no, Sherlock, please.” He could hear his voice sounded weak.

“Do you say 'no' because you don't want it or because you think you shouldn’t want it?” Sherlock's voice was calm and serious and it was clear this hadn't been a spontaneous idea. He had planned it for a long time and anticipated Mycroft's reaction.

Mycroft had never lied to his brother, and there was no sense in doing it now.

“The latter,” he confessed.

“We're unique, Mycroft, you always said that. Normal people's rules don't apply to us. It was always us, for as long as I can remember. You do recall George?”

“Yes,” Mycroft croaked.

“You didn’t do much with him, did you?”

“No.”

“Because you didn’t want to.”

“Yes.” It seemed he could only answer with one word now. He was feeling… so foreign. So out of his depth. But then – this was Sherlock. No stranger. No attacker. Just his not so little brother. Which was the problem of course…

“Has there been another one?”

“No.” There hadn't. It had just been him and his right hand and the vague thoughts of a tall man with black hair and a chiselled stomach.

Sherlock let his hand go. “Turn around, Mycroft.”

He did at once, facing his brother. It was not quite dark in the room and he could see his face in great detail. The eyes, blue and green and absolutely stunning. The high cheekbones, framing his slim face with the full lips and the pert little nose. He was beautiful. “Was there… anyone for you?” he asked, remembering all the looks that had been directed at his brother at the station.

Sherlock smiled. “No, never. I never wanted anyone, just like you didn’t want George. I counted the days until this would happen – me, living with you, nobody around. Nobody can live up to you. If you reject me, I will never touch anyone else.”

“How could anyone… reject you…” Mycroft certainly couldn’t and he wondered why he had even tried to refuse.

And then their hands pressed each other before they started exploring the other one's body with their fingers, and Mycroft felt smooth skin and hard muscles and then he kissed soft, plush lips and of course he should have known his fantasy man had always been the anticipation of Sherlock as what he was now – an irresistible, wonderful, perfect man.

“I need you,” Sherlock said, and without any experience, Mycroft knew at once what he was asking for.

And of course Sherlock had come well-prepared. He offered a small bottle and Mycroft wetted his fingers, and after a few tries, he found what he was looking for. He rubbed and touched and eventually slipped a finger inside, and his heart was beating way too fast when Sherlock slicked him up as well; his long fingers touching his throbbing hardness for the first time felt divine and so right, and then Mycroft was over him and Sherlock helped him finding where he had to go.

He paused when Sherlock hissed after his mushroom head had pushed inside, but very quickly his brother was adjusted to the intrusion and their lips found each other once more while Mycroft was moving his hips, resting on his knees and elbows, and he was very careful until Sherlock urged him to go deeper, to claim him harder, and Mycroft lost himself in the impossibly tight grip around his cock and the increasingly intense, electric feeling in his groin when he took to long, deep thrusts, his face buried in Sherlock's long neck, his mouth nibbling at the warm flesh there.

Sherlock was holding him in a tight embrace and his entire body was tingling while he was pumping away, and then there was a strong, almost unbearable pull in his groin and he cried out and felt his release being ripped from him, filling his brother's hot passage, and Sherlock moaned against his forehead and then there was stickiness between them, and Mycroft ran his fingers through it in wonder and pulled out of his brother, embracing him, stroking him. It was messy and shocking and it felt so right, and Mycroft knew they were linked to each other in the last way that had been missing, and they would be like this forever – Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes, going through their lives as brothers and lovers, side by side, hand in hand.

The End


End file.
